1: The Weight of Shadows

Ellie’s POV

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and regret. It always did. I sat by my mother’s bedside, clutching her frail hand as machines beeped softly in the background. Each breath she took was shallow, uneven—like the fragile thread holding her to this world might snap at any moment. My chest tightened every time the silence between those breaths stretched too long.

I hated this place. Hated the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, hated the way the nurses avoided eye contact when they passed by, hated how everything felt so sterile and cold. But most of all, I hated myself for sitting here helpless while my mom slipped further away from me.

She looked so small in the bed, her once-vibrant face now pale and sunken. Her curly auburn hair had thinned since the treatments started, and dark circles shadowed her closed eyes. Mom used to laugh so much it filled the entire house, but now even smiling seemed too exhausting for her. Systemic sclerosis, the doctors called it—a rare autoimmune disease that attacked her organs and skin, leaving her body broken piece by piece. They’d stopped offering hope weeks ago, saying there wasn’t anything more they could do.

And Dad? He hadn’t come to visit today. Again.

After Mom’s diagnosis, he’d thrown himself into work, burying his pain under piles of paperwork and late-night whiskey. Sometimes I wondered if he blamed me for not being able to fix things. Or maybe he just couldn’t stand seeing her like this anymore. Either way, it left me alone to sit vigil beside her, counting each labored breath like it was my own lifeline.

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against the edge of the mattress. “Please don’t leave me,” I whispered, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. Not anymore.

When visiting hours ended, I forced myself to leave. Walking home through Prague’s cobblestone streets, I tried to shake off the heaviness clinging to me like a second skin. The city was quieter tonight, its medieval charm muted under the dim glow of streetlights. Mist curled around my ankles as I crossed Charles Bridge, the Vltava River shimmering faintly below.

For a brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to jump—to feel the rush of wind before the icy water swallowed me whole. Anything to escape the suffocating weight of grief pressing down on me. But then I thought of Mom lying alone in that hospital bed, waiting for someone to hold her hand, and guilt dragged me back to reality.

I decided to take a shortcut through Old Town Square, hoping to avoid the crowded main roads. That’s when I heard them—the hurried footsteps behind me. At first, I told myself it was nothing, just another tourist lost in the maze of alleys. But the sound grew louder, closer, until I could practically feel their breath on my neck.

Panic surged through me as I quickened my pace, glancing over my shoulder. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by hoods. One of them grabbed my arm, yanking me backward. I screamed, thrashing wildly, but the other one clamped a hand over my mouth.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing.

My heart pounded in my ears as I struggled to break free. Just as I thought I was done for, a third figure stepped out of the darkness. Tall, elegant, impossibly fast. Before I could process what was happening, he disarmed the attackers with effortless precision. His movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, as he sent them stumbling backward.

“Leave her alone,” he said, his voice cold and commanding.

The two men hesitated for a split second before bolting into the night, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys. I stood frozen, my knees trembling beneath me, as the stranger turned to face me.

He was beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist uncomfortably. Sharp cheekbones, jet-black hair swept back from his face, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me. There was something otherworldly about him, something that didn’t quite belong in this world—or perhaps, something that belonged to another entirely.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone clipped.

I shook my head, unable to speak. Up close, I noticed the faintest hint of sadness etched into his features, like he carried centuries’ worth of pain behind those icy eyes.

Before I could thank him, he stepped back, putting distance between us. “Be more careful next time,” he said, his voice laced with warning. And then, without another word, he vanished into the shadows.

I stared after him, my heart still racing—not just from fear, but from something deeper I couldn’t quite name. Who was he? And why did I feel like part of me recognized him, even though we’d never met before?

As I walked home, exhaustion hit me like a wave. Tomorrow was another double shift at the café, and I still hadn’t figured out how to pay next month’s rent and cover Mom’s latest round of medical bills.

By the time I reached home, my mind was spinning with questions. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, trying to catch my breath. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I replayed the encounter in my mind. What if I’d followed him? Would he have answered my questions, or would he have pushed me away again?

Eventually, exhaustion pulled me into a restless sleep. But just as I drifted off, I saw his face in my dreams. Only this time, he wasn’t running away. He stood in front of me, reaching out as if to touch my cheek—but before his fingers could brush against my skin, he dissolved into shadows.

I woke with a start, my heart pounding. Something felt… off. Like the dream had been more than just a dream.

I got up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains. Across the street, a pair of glowing eyes stared back at me.